Perch @perchingpath@eldritch.cafe
Register swerves, confusions of scale.
She, elle.
Mostly within 30 miles of Philadelphia, because of a curse.
Joined Sep 2018
Pinned toot
Gayfeather, colic-root, rattlesnake-master, blazing star,( devil's bite, Cahaba torch, prairie-pine,) I took your list to that fireworks store in Upland, gathered & checked off each rocket, then imagined how you'd stare at a forest fire (guilty? gleeful?) as I put them all back.
Since turning 30, every period of particular crisis, regardless of length, has turned exactly one of my hairs white. I'm up to 3 on my scalp and 1 above my eye, but I haven't found a logic behind that distribution.
In the dream we spoke to each other as mountaineers. We called out piton positions, admitted we'd started too late in the day and were succumbing to cold & fatigue. Our bodies knelt warm indoors, nailing shirts to the floor until each was outlined by hundreds of dull steel heads.
Found some wild brambles and ate a few ripe, sour berries the birds had missed. If I've made a tragic fruit-identification error and am now dying, keep it to yourself.
It's actually super easy for the entire contents of my head to slosh out. I don't know why these folkloric peasants get so smug about it.
Surely anyone who's worked in an academic library has considered methods for disabling the safety mechanisms of the rolling stacks.
Whimsically at first, while plotting byzantine assassinations with a colleague just returned from a budget meeting, then with gremlinic fascination while idling at an unapproached reference desk, then to sate an idle thanatic longing hours past sunset in a winter evening shift.
Avoiding other walkers means meeting broken buildings.
There'll have been a gap in which this gardener's shed was plantless, before the ceiling collapsed and residents of the shattered glasshouse next door crept back in. Like squatting the hospital your grandparents were born in.
Absent from buses, subways, and bars where I can perch on the edge of a stage squinting in dim red light, I read less. I've been snail's-pacing through Sofia Samatar's story collection for weeks despite my thoroughly-whetted appetite for edged elegiacism.
We're a county or two east of the freeze warning, but it's May 9th and I let the wind into the kitchen while I was cooking soup and washing dishes and I & every pot exhaled & filled the room with swirls of mist.
I've been dreaming of interlocked domestic spaces. Climbing out through a row house's window to fall seven feet to the hallway floor of a manor in a field of flowers. Following a straight path that passes through the fences & hedges of backyard after backyard to the horizon.
The woods of I'Cath amplify the regrets of ex-swains with bittersweet shadow-shapes & damp romantic vistas until they're so wracked with ruing their inability to shelter their dear beleaguered Spite that they disassemble into fixtures & furniture with no further intervention.
Flying to Antarctica as a medical tourist to see penguins and have my heart hidden in a clay jar in a woolen sack in a battered sea chest buried 2 miles beneath Denman Glacier.
My mother asked why I already had a bountiful supply of nitrile gloves, and I was like, "Oh, they're useful for all kinds of things."
Register swerves, confusions of scale.
She, elle.
Mostly within 30 miles of Philadelphia, because of a curse.
Joined Sep 2018
